The road trip.

The past few days have been a freakish blur to me, therefore I will have to excuse myself for how fragmented my writings will be.

I am not well.

I have not been well for about 3 weeks now.

Here is an encounter of what exactly I remember.

I woke up last Monday and decided to write a book. Not just any book. I had the plot, the story line, how in depth the main character was- in fact I think I wrote a whole A4 page dedicated to the ‘meaning’ behind her first name – I had it all planned out.

So I sacked work off and woke up early and wrote for two days straight. I went in to town and bought The Bible. The Bible was to decode the story.

On Wednesday it all went to shit. I cant remember what I was doing? Something happened and my mood just dropped. Seriously dropped. I was trying to explain to my partner that once my mood goes up, and up, it falls down a million times harder – the crash is always a shock to the system. I was sat on my stairs in my kitchen crying. I couldn’t understand why.

My mood began to decline, and anxiety took over.

On Saturday I wrote my latest post about ‘The Bad Energy’. I remember being so bad the anxiety that all I had been doing lately was writing. And Writing, and writing.

By Sunday, my mind had cracked.

I’d had a complete blow out at my daughter, I was so irritated I just exploded with anger. I screamed until my throat was raw and sore. I ended up in a ball on he kichen floor pulling my hair out.

An hour later I dropped her off at her Nan’s, then I sent this text to the Boy;

“I can’t do this anymore I need to see someone or do something. I feel like i’m at risk of hurting myself or doing something stupid I just cant cope with how bad I feel. I need to tell someone I dont know what to do. I don’t know whether to just go in to the hospital and tell them or not.”

So I set off in the car, but instead of going to the hospital I went to the chemist. I bought some co-codamol tablets to stop the anxiety, anything to stop it I was that desperate, then I set off back for home. Only I didn’t go home. I put my foot down on the pedal. And the further away from home I got, and the more the tablets begun to kick in the more I felt free. So I put my foot down even more, turned the radio up full blast and started to scream to the music at the top of my lungs.

The next thing I knew, I was in Wales. 100 miles away from home.

I can’t even remember what my thoughts were when I crossed over the boarder to another fucking country, but it sure wasn’t ‘what the hell am I doing?’

Flash forward a few hours later, The Boy found out where I was and freaked out. He had to wire me some money over for me to get home because I’d spent my bill money on petrol to get there.

It started to sink in properly a few days later, and I still can’t say why I went so far, on a whim, with no intentions. I must have just panicked and ran. All I can remember is the wind in my hair whist I was going fast down the motorway. I remember the anxiety dispersing in to nothingness. I remember feeling light.

The Boy stayed close by me for a few days after that. We even had a day trip out just me and him on Tuesday and I felt pretty normal and okay. I enjoyed my day. I started to think that maybe I was going to get better and that the worse was behind me. Then it came back that evening and I ended up flipping my lid again.

I’ve slept since, loads. Yesterday I could barely cope to be awake. It’s like my brain and body is paralysed with the Fear, of what I cannot say.

I don’t understand what is happening to me. I want to scream for help but at the same time I cannot bare to be around people. I have shut myself off from the world. I want to be alone.

But solitude kills.

And it has found me.